


How to Get out of Debt and Go to College, by Scott Mccall

by cooljacket



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cooljacket/pseuds/cooljacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The McCalls are in a financial bind and Scott may have to do something he's never considered to save not only his college fund, but their basic state of living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Job Opportunity

 

The school cafeteria buzzed with noise. The clatter of trays as students progressed along the serving line. The drone of numerous conversations through mouthfuls of food. And Stiles bragging on and on about his new job.

"S'pretty sweet," he said, licking off the juice that that clung to his fork from his tiny bowl of cubed fruit. "I mean, I'm getting paid like twice as much as minimum wage and all I gotta do is film a few videos. Pretty cool, right? I did the math and if I keep it up, by next month I'll have enough cash to finally . . ."

Scott tuned out, staring into his own bowl of tiny fruit, which he hadn't touched. Despite all the noise around him, he couldn't drown out the replays in his head of the conversation he'd had with his mom this morning. Cutbacks were happening at the hospital, which meant cutbacks at home. With bills and late notices piling up, she was afraid that they might have to break into Scott's college fund to stay afloat.

"Dude!" Stiles said, spitting bits of pineapple through his teeth.

"Huh?" Scott said, coming back to reality and seeing the disappointed look on his best friend's face. "What?" he said, "I'm listening. You were talking about that job you got with the web-based company. The one where you film promotional videos and they pay you tons of cash." Scott wiped his face, hand coming away with tiny shreds of fruit. "Yuck. You know you don't have to spit on me to get my attention."

Stiles momentarily looked embarrassed, but then shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?" He put down his fork. "And, dude, I know you too well. You were doing that smile-and-nod thing that definitely means you weren't listening. You've been spacing out a lot lately, actually. Something going on?"

Scott shook his head, picking at his food with his fork. "Not really."

"Not really meaning you can't tell me for my own safety?" Stiles prodded.

"No," Scott sighed. "Not really meaning I'm just out of it today. I was up all night, didn't get a lot of sleep."

The school bell rang, and Scott covered his ears to protect his sensitive hearing. Then everyone around them started to stir and get up.

"That's funny, because when I texted you at 2:00 AM last night asking if you thought an alien invasion would trigger the downfall of modern capitalism as we know it, you didn't respond," Stiles countered. He got up and followed Scott to the trash cans.

"Must not have gotten the message," Scott lied, dumping his tray. "But uhm . . . sure, I guess it would trigger the downfall."

"BUT WHY!?" Stiles cried, clutching his forehead. "They have so much to gain from exploiting market equilibrium!"

Sensing a conversation that he really didn't want to get into, Scott shouldered his backpack and thumbed in the opposite direction. "Heh, yeah. I guess you're right. Listen, I really need to get to my Spanish class so I can cram before the test."

"Just go," Stiles said, waving his friend off. Then he shouldered his own backpack and started down the hall to his own class. Scott could hear him still muttering something about aliens and economics as he went.

Scott turned and went to Spanish, in no hurry for the test he'd made up just to get Stiles off his back. He cleared his way through a rush of other students, the late bell hastening them all along.

\---

Scott came home to an empty house. Of course, his mom was working longer shifts at the hospital to make up the money she would have been making if not for the cutbacks. Bored and uncomfortable with the silence, Scott grabbed his gym bag and headed back out.

He stayed at the gym until the windows grew dark with approaching dusk, lifting set after set until he simply lost count -- he was sure he would regret that tomorrow morning. Even werewolf muscles had their breaking point, and even worse, their soreness point. He put down the barbells and dried the sweat from his forehead with a wristband. Then he headed into the back locker room for a much needed shower.

With everything stowed temporarily in his locker, he wrapped a towel around himself and headed toward the showers, his flip flops making slapping sounds on the bottoms of his heels. On the way, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the wide mirrors that were installed in the walls, seemingly for no reason other than for muscle heads to praise their own bodies. Scott paused. Checking that no one else was around, he allowed himself a least a little ogling of his own muscles -- after all, tomorrow he wouldn't even be able think about his muscles without crying once the soreness set in.

He flexed muscle group after group. Biceps. Lats. Abs. Admiring the swollen look they had after spending so much effort on his taxing bout of lifting. He eventually was on the verge of laughing, knowing that he looked just like one of those meat heads grunting at themselves in the mirror. "You want to know where the showers are?" he said to his reflection. Then he lifted his arm and flexed it, pointing to his left. "That way," he said, deciding to run with the whole meat head persona for now.

"Thanks. I thought I was going to have to a take a bath in one of these sinks like a bum," said someone behind Scott.

Scott jumped, all his muscles immediately going slack. Trying to look like he hadn't been gawking at himself in the mirror, but it was obviously too late.

"Uhm, I usually don't do that," Scott said, scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry. Did you need to use the mirror?"

"No, no. Don't apologize. I was enjoying the gun show."

The man stepped out from a row of lockers, where he had apparently been leaning for who knew how long. Scott was humiliated. It took a few seconds for him to actually pick his eyes up from the floor and look at him.

He was a short man -- a few inches shorter than Scott -- with skin so orangey-tan it looked like it had been painted on. When he opened his mouth to speak, he revealed teeth so white Scott thought he shouldn't stare directly into them.

"Scott, is it?" he said.

"How do you know my name?"

"It's right there on your towel, kiddo," the man answered, nodding.

Scott turned in a circle before simply looking at his reflection to see his name written on the hem of the towel. SCOTT MCCALL in smudgy, marker-drawn capitals. In case he ever lost it so that it could be returned -- he'd forgotten he'd done that.

"Oh," he said, taking a breath. "Sorry. I'm just kind of jumpy since I didn't realize you were standing there watching me." Kind of jumpy? He was starting to feel like Stiles, actually.

"Sorry. It's the Navahkee in me," said the man.

"Navahkee?"

"My Native American roots," explained the man. "One-eighteenth on my mother's side. We're a quiet-footed people. Also naturally dark-skinned."

"Uh-huh," Scott said, obviously not buying the skin thing. "Anyway, sorry for hogging the mirror. It's all yours now."

He turned and took a step toward the showers.

"Wait, wait!" said the man.

Scott stopped and turned around, eyebrows raised.

"I was wondering," the man said, puzzling his chin. "What kind of towel is that? Looks like the kind they have back at my hotel."

"What kind?" Scott looked down. "I'm . . . not sure." He stepped forward and grabbed the bottom edge of the towel, looking for a tag or some kind of identifier.

"That say it?" said the man, reaching for something Scott didn't have a chance to see. The next thing he knew, the towel was falling off his waist, into the man's hands.

"Nope. Just washing instructions," the man said. He gathered the towel up in his hands and glanced over Scott, his eyes raking up and down, then settling squarely between Scott's legs. "Sheesh, muscles and a big cock? Aren't you the full package!"

Scott jumped to cover himself, hands struggling to cup privates that he couldn't quite fit between his palms. "I don't know what you're doing, but I'm pretty sure it's sexual harassment," Scott said. "Can I have my towel back?"

"Sure, sure. I'm sorry," said the man, handing back the towel.

Scott quickly wrapped it back around himself, trying a big knot in the waist for added protection.

"I didn't mean to startle or offend you," said the man, holding up his hands innocently. "I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. My name's Kirk." He offered one of his hands to shake. "I wanted to talk to you about a job opportunity."

A job opportunity? As if this guy couldn't get weirder. Scott turned on a heel and started toward the showers. "No thanks."

"Just a second. You haven't even heard what it is yet."

Was the man -- Kirk -- following him now? Great.

"I'm not interested," Scott reiterated.

"Are you sure?" Kirk asked.

Scott came to the opening of a shower stall, stepped inside, and turned around. With his hand on the plastic curtain, he said, "Pretty sure. Now please get away from me before I have to do something about it." Then he drew the curtain shut, praying the threat sufficed and that he wouldn't have to actually lay hands on the man to get him away.

"I don't think you're sure," Kirk said. "A kid like you, wearing those beat-up shoes. Having to write his name on his towel. It's pitiful. I'm offering you a job that pays enough to buy new shoes and a whole stack of new towels, first paycheck. No experience needed."

The next thing Scott knew, the man's hand was extending through a gap in the curtain, holding out a business card.

"All I'm asking is that you keep it in mind."

Scott was sure he was audibly growling now, but he snatched the card up anyway, his last concession. "OK, now will you please freaking leave me alone!" he shouted, hurting his own ears with the echo.

The man's hand silently retreated, and Scott watched his shadow fade from the plastic curtain. He let the water run through his hair, willing it to relax him. Hopefully he would never see that man again.

But only a few weeks later, he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this just now. Second chapter coming soon . . . -ish?


	2. The New Meaning of Sexting

For some reason, Scott held onto the card after his run in with the man. Although it did sit, crumpled and forgotten in one of the pockets of his gym bag, for nearly a week before he found it during a laundry day.

BAD BOYS ENTERTAINMENT it read, in font that was pretending to be official. Below was a website and a contact number.

Scott crumpled it up once more, letting it slip down the gap between the washing machine and the dryer. Budgets were getting tight around the house, but he didn't need money that badly.

And so he continued doing what he had always done. Going to school, coming back home. Going to the gym when home was too quiet, where he never did see Kirk again -- and for that he was thankful. Going to the animal clinic on the days he was scheduled, earning a wage that hardly helped to pay off his cell phone bill, let alone the stack of bills that had accumulated on the kitchen table. Everything was normal -- not great, but normal.

It took only one more week for things to not be normal.

"Demoted?" Scott gaped.

"Yes, but don't worry," his mom said, avoiding Scott's gaze by looking through a kitchen drawer. "Everything's going to be just fine here."

"Mom, you said they're going to cut your paycheck in half," Scott argued.

"So? We've been OK with a lot less before," she said.

She grabbed a ladle from the drawer, and may have decided just then that she was going to make soup for dinner. She set a pot of the stove and began searching the pantry for broth.

"They can't do that to you," Scott said, following her to the doorway. "They're paying you way less than what you're worth."

Melissa stood on her tiptoes to reach a carton of broth on the top shelf, which Scott stepped in and grabbed for her. She unscrewed the cap and took a whiff, her nose curling. "Does this smell like it's gone bad?"

Scott stepped back, his delicate sense of smell already recoiling from here.

"I guess we'll have to throw it out," she said, screwing the lid back on and chucking it into the trash can.

"Mom? Mom," Scott said. "Why are you just ignoring this?"

"I'm not," assured Melissa. "I'm just . . . focusing on dinner right now. Sheesh, didn't we buy more broth last time we were at the store?"

"I don't know," Scott answered. "I can't see any more up here on the shelf where that one was."

Melissa got a boost on an old cookware box to confirm this for herself. Then she stepped down and sighed.

"You need to talk to your boss. He likes you. He'll listen," Scott said.

Melissa didn't seem to hear him, or was too busy scanning the shelves for something else to cook. Scott huffed and touched her shoulder, turning her around.

"Mom . . . Mom?" he said.

She was crying. Small, shiny tears sliding down her cheeks, which she tried to hide by looking down and pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "It's just . . . why didn't we buy more broth while we were at the store?"

"It's OK, Mom," Scott said. "I'll handle dinner. You go lay down."

"No, I can help --"

"It's OK," Scott repeated. He forced himself to smile even though he felt like crying with her, and pulled her into a hug. "I said I can handle dinner."

Melissa hugged him back, weakly and then increasingly tighter. "Thank you," she said. "But don't think this means I owe you next time you're in trouble," she tried to threaten.

Scott chuckled. "I know, I know. This is a one-off." He patted her on the back. "Just go lay down."

Melissa stepped past him, leaving the kitchen and disappearing down the hall. Scott heard her bedroom door softly shut.

He found that the only thing the pantry could provide as far as a full meal was spaghetti. He filled the pot his mom had set on the stove with water, and grabbed another pan for the sauce.

Dinner was a moot point, though, because when he came to rouse his mom to eat she had already collapsed into a deep sleep. And she looked so exhausted that Scott decided he shouldn't wake her. He spooned her portion into a Tupperware bowl and stored it in the fridge, hoping she'd see it there in the morning.

Once he'd gone upstairs and shut himself into his own bedroom for the night, the first thing he did was jam headphones into his ears and work off all that he'd eaten for dinner. His heart was swollen with sadness for his mom, and intense repetitions one-handed pushups helped him ignore it for the time being. But his muscles were already sore from having worked himself to the brink of collapse at the gym every day this week, so sooner than he would have liked, he was forced to slow down and find some other distraction.

He carried his laptop to the bed and laid down, sweaty and still breathing a little hard. The ache in his muscles had reawakened and was now in full force, so it was almost a struggle just to peel off his damp shirt.

When the computer booted up, he opened the browser and quickly found his list of saved bookmarks, clicking on the first thing that sounded even remotely appealing. A thumbnail of two coy-looking girls loaded onto the screen, and once he'd kicked his pants off -- groaning and wincing from the ache that bending his knees gave -- he moved his headphone jack from his music player to the laptop, and pressed play.

The two girls came to life before his eyes, already giggling about something that must have been said before the recording started. Then they got right to business. The brunette pressed her hand to the inside of the red head's thigh. Then the red head responded by combing her fingers through the other's hair, pulling her into a fumbling but passionate kiss that Scott couldn't help but grin at.

Finally, he could turn his brain off. He let himself get swept up in the scene, imagining it was his hands on the girls. In no time, his cock was so hard that it ached simply from being too large to fit in his underwear any longer, and he reached down to free himself. His cock smacked heavily on his abdomen, depositing a quarter-sized puddle of pre-cum into the notches between his abs. He grabbed the shirt he'd discarded and kept it close by, just in case. Even when he was miles away from actually shooting his load, he always managed to make a big mess with his pre-cum.

He increased the video's volume with one hand to make sure it drowned out the silence around him, and picked up his shaft with the other. It was times like these, when he had worked out so intensely that his biceps seared from any small movement, that he wished he had someone else around to do it for him. But he powered through, needing the distraction and the release. Jerking off would be his last workout of the day.

And it was a workout. Taking his shaft into both fists felt almost like gripping the bar at the bench. It must have been these thoughts of the gym that brought him back to that time in the locker room, with Kirk. Scott subtly wondered if his cock was as "big" as the man had claimed it was. Sure, if he crunched his abdomen, he could touch the tip of it to one of his nipples (which made for a strange sensation). And through some experimentation, he had also found that while lying on his back and folding his bottom half over, he could nearly dangle the tip into his mouth. Even Stiles, when he had shared these secrets with him, had said that it wasn't exactly normal. But until now Scott had pinned it all on above average flexibility.

But then, why was he thinking about that creep at a time like this? All it did was remind him of the job he had been offered, and that his lack of money was so obvious even strangers could see it. He turned his eyes back to the computer monitor, trying to reignite the magic that had once swept him into the video. But he couldn't. It was gone, and it was getting increasingly more painful to pump his hands over his almost annoyingly long shaft.

In a huff of exhaustion, he stopped and set the laptop aside. Then he simply turned onto his stomach and began to hump his cock against the bed sheets, praying that the friction would be enough to give him the release he needed. The movement still agitated his muscles, but not nearly as much since every group was doing only a small part to keep the motion going. Without any headphones in, he could hear his own needy grunts and snorts. Was he always this loud? At least his mom was asleep.

He smushed the pillow between his hands, burying his face in the mound. This was getting ridiculous, and the frustration was only making him louder. He turned his head to see his own body rhythmically rising into and dipping out of the frame of his dresser mirror, an almost hypnotizing sight. But then his phone buzzed, breaking the trance.

A message from Stiles. Apparently he still didn't forgive Scott for thinking that an alien invasion would upset capitalism.

Scott simply tossed the phone aside -- only to swipe it back up a moment later when he had an idea as bright as its shining screen. He reached into his gym bag, grabbed a wristband, and stretched it over the head of his cock. Then he brought the phone to his face -- wincing, because lifting even its small weight was a pain -- and typed back a devious message: "You're being ridiculous. Aliens totally HATE capitalism, and I can say that because I definitely know more about aliens than you do, dude."

He changed the settings on his phone so that he would be reminded of unread text messages every five seconds. Then he stuffed the phone inside the wristband around his cock, and waited for the messages to pour in. And they did. Once the first notification buzzed in, his phone never stopped vibrating.

He turned back onto his stomach and started humping the bed sheets again, but it wasn't the same with the phone strapped against him. It was more intense, like a strange hand job that was everywhere he moved. In moments he was forking over the load he had been so far away from only minutes ago, actually whimpering because it felt so good it hurt.

He spent the unprecedented high that followed with his face pressed into his pillow and the rest of his body limp, staying that way until the enormous puddle of warm cum beneath him started to turn cold. Now was when he realized that he had no idea what he was getting into when he had strapped the phone to his cock. Getting up was a struggle -- the bed sheets stuck to him when he tried pushing up off the mattress. Even worse was his phone, dangling from the head of his cock inside the now soggy wristband. He pulled it out and wiped it off on the bed sheets, the smear only a fraction of the mess already there. But that didn't even help.

At least he could still type on it, though. Still buzzing in his hands, he changed the notification settings to what they had been before, then quickly shot a message to Stiles that said, "OK! I give up. You're right and I'm a total moron when it comes to aliens and economics." Through the globs of cum on the screen, he could see the multi-paragraph messages Stiles had sent him while he'd been jerking himself, along with the website links he'd tagged on to support his assertions. After a few seconds, his phone finally quieted. The last message from Stiles was, "I accept your apology."

Scott sat down on the only clean corner of his bed and sighed. The only thought currently running through his mind was to remark on how sexy aliens and economics could be with the right phone settings, which brought on a few exhausted laughs.

Eventually he got up, setting out to put his room back in order. The bed sheets needed to be stripped off and washed, of course, and he probably needed a shower as well. The computer was still on the floor, the paused image of the two giggling girls looking up at him. With some longing, Scott wondered why his life couldn't be like that. Just kisses and laughs and sex, instead of school and gym and jerking off like a lunatic.

He sized himself up in the dresser mirror, naked. Covered in sweat and cum. His face now more red than tan. He recalled that day at the gym when he'd ogled himself in the locker room mirror because here he was, gawking at himself again. But if someone forced him to admit it, he thought he did look pretty decent right now. Pretty . . . sexy, even. Couldn't he actually be like one of those girls in the video, laughing and showing off his body for fun and cash?

Of course not, it was just the post-orgasm high talking. He pulled on a pair of noisy sweats and carried his bed sheets downstairs to be washed, careful not to wake his mom as he crept past her bedroom door.

But when he stepped into the garage, he spotted the crumpled up business card that Kirk had given him sitting between the washing machine and the dryer. Of course he would never actually stoop that low, no matter how much debt he and his mom were in. But after he dumped his bed sheets in the washing machine, he dug the card out and put it in his pocket anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And by "soon-ish", I mean only a few hours later. The future is now!!!
> 
> Hope you like McCall feels and porn. And please let me know what you think in the comments! It really helps. ^-^


End file.
